


The Iron Underneath

by Exaltes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaltes/pseuds/Exaltes





	The Iron Underneath

_Promise me._  
Those two words never ceased to haunt Lyanna. They had been screamed, sobbed, and said with stubborn grit. And now, years after the rebellion, years into the War of the Five Kings, Lyanna was once more in a situation to say them. This time she doubted the man who lay next to her would head them, for he knew not of who she was. No one did. But yet—even if he did, he would not care.  
She had screamed them to Benjen, as she was stolen by a royal guard. Promise you won’t let them come after me, Benjen! Promise me! She was locked away in a tower as the Prince who coveted her more than her own betrothed pawed at her, expected her to know what only a woman grown knew. The dragon tore at the wolf until she was left skinned and bruised, everything about her broken and resentful. When he left for war, there was no kisses, no tears. She prayed that Robert would slay him, kill him for what he did, for what he caused, for all the hurt he forced upon everyone around. Selfish, stupid dragon. But weren’t they all?  
She had sobbed them to Ser Arthur, begging him to not let the Prince touch her again. Sobbed them once more when her brother came to collect her. He had wrapped his fingers into her hair, the fondness she at last saw, and said nothing. We swore a vow. The words from his lips would always destroy her, her kind knight. His unnoticed affections until it was too late would never leave her mind. But then his blood was on the ground and it was Ned and Howland standing before her.  
She had stared at her brother, hollow-eyed and dead inside. How could he expect her to go and marry Robert now? After being used by the Prince, after watching her brother slay the only man who truly loved her, after knowing her brother and father died in that throne room? Promise me you’ll let me die, Ned. Promise me. And Ned, he did. He let her go, it was not her bones that laid in that cart he brought North, but Ser Arthur’s. It was Ser Arthur who laid in the crypts of Winterfell, a place of honor among the Northernmen.  
Lyanna died and was reborn. Reborn into a horsewoman, a rogue. She made her living off horseflesh, and donned a new name. Lyra. Close to what it used to be, but no affiliation to anywhere. Most people assumed she was some lowborn from Bear Island, given her name to one of Mormont daughters, and Lyanna let them think that. Highborn lady dead, she was able to hone her sword skills, and she chose to carry a set of fine Braavosi daggers, a winner’s purse from a race she won.  
Make no mistake, this was no woman of Stark, this was Lyra. Bold of tongue, as fierce on four legs as two, and lethal enough to not have to guard her tongue. As the War of the Five Kings progresses, Lyra sticks the towns. Rift-raft in the Wolfswoods was nothing she wanted to be a part of, at least, not yet. As the ironborn invaded her homelands, she walked softly and carried a big stick. No ironborn would scare her, still very much a feral wolf, a woman grown, a woman hardened by hard times and harder memories.  
That was how she met him. Victarion Greyjoy. On his way through town, and walking as if he presumed to own the place, the she-wolf could not keep her tongue. A few insults, and the man was on her, a hand latched around her throat. Terrible idea, really, because before he knew it, a fine Braavosi blade was to his own throat and the she-wolf was smirking. “Lay a hand on me once more, and spill all your pretty blood onto the sand. Then we’ll see if you bleed salt water,” she growled at him. He tilted his head, the blade drawing just the thinnest trickle of blood. He released her, and she was on her feet without a pause.  
From there the Captain and the she-wolf were cautious friends. The friendship grew as close as either would allow. Too much iron, too much temper.   
But then it changed, as it always does.  
The night before the Iron Captain left for Pyke once more, he was found among the company of his men and Lyra, in her favorite tavern. Oblivious as she was in her youth to the affections of men, she never connected why his usually handsy men never touched her. She had foolishly associated it to them respecting her. She didn’t realize until after that she was a marked woman, marked as _his_.  
It did not take long for the mead to set in, to make her head slightly swirl. But she trusted Victarion, and he trusted her enough to let his guard down around her in private. So when his men stumbled out to respective lodges with female company, it left them alone. He was not ugly, not by any standard. The Iron Captain was handsome, with his dark hair and eyes colored like the sea. He was tall, broad, with sharp features and a calm demeanor. He knew he was in control, and did not need to flaunt it.  
Mayhaps that was why she did not fight him when he pulled her into his lap, his fingers like iron into her legs. She didn’t fight him when his hands went to her hips, locking her on top of him. No, instead she leaned down, almost fiercely, and kissed him. He tasted like salt and cedar, a taste she could be addicted to. He picked her up at her kiss, returning it nearly as fiercely as her. The owner of the tavern did not protest when Victarion kicked him out of his own quarters, all without letting go of his woman, and once the door was kicked shut, Lyanna was forced to think about what she was getting into.  
Never being one for overthinking it, her fingers trembled a little as she undid his armor. He never asked if she was scared, he never asked her permission. He didn’t need what he already had. Tugging on her own laces, until she was down to nothing but her smallclothes. Still in his breeches, he pulled her once more on top of him, pulling her lips to his. Unlike the first time, the wolf gave into his touch. She was not stiff, she was not sobbing. Her lips met his with feverish need, and he rolled over on top of her. There was no submission, no dominance in the move. Capturing her finger in his own, he pressed her hand down into the bed, their lips never leaving each others. Her free hand traced the smooth lines of his oblique muscles, the surprising softness to his skin. When he let her hand go, she moved to undo his breeches, his lips at her neck, nipping lightly. Working them over his hips she found the Iron Captain lived up to his name.  
She ran her hand over his length, earning her harder bite and throaty groan, his arousal like steel. “You know better than to tease me, Lyra.” A hooded threat, but she didn’t mind, in fact, she liked it. She liked it when he grew impatient and tore her small clothes, only to find her wet and waiting for him. She opened her legs for him, and moaned when he at last sank into her, his full length filling her. It did not take much them for them to synchronize, their breathing to align. Lyanna rocked her hips back into his thrusts, her moans breathy and real. Her fingers latched onto his hips, an attempt to pull him even deeper into her. She needed him and that promised release she yearned for him to give her.  
His stubble rubbed against her cheek as he kissed her neck, under her ear, nipped at her lightly. His hands played a sweet melody, a rough melody as they tangled through her hair. He shifted above her, and she gasped, a new spot. Victarion was well taught in women, and Lyanna found herself to be no different than the others he’s had. As he shoved into her hard and purposeful, his lips on her neck, she lost control. Shifting her hips up into his, she came hard. Her nails dug into his back, drawing blood from him, her head thrown back in ecstasy. When the Captain came, he came as violently as she did. His thrusting became erratic, his finger drawing bruises instead of blood as he spilled his seed into her.   
He collapsed on her after, spent. Lyanna did not mind that she could barely breath under his frame. After some time, he rolled to his side, his eyes watching her for a bit. She dared not touch him, for touching him would bring the next promise from her lips.  
 _Promise me you’ll return.  
Promise me you’ll return **for me.**_


End file.
